Shades of Black
by ForeverSirius77
Summary: Sirius Black: A son, a brother. A friend, a Marauder. A prisoner, a fugitive, a godfather. Sirius played many roles, most veiled with tragedy or loss. But even in dark night skies, there are stars that shine bright. A short story collection about Padfoot.
1. Part I: Didn't Do It

**_Disclaimer_**_: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to me._

**_Summary_**_: Playtime for the Black children gets a bit out of hand. __**A drabble written to demonstrate 'foreshadowing'.** _

**_Author's __Note_**_: This is the first part of a series of drabbles written to show points in Sirius's life. Most were originally composed for a class on the MNFF forums, and it's stated in the summary what, if anything, the drabble was specifically meant to show. This one, for example, was written to show the literary technique of 'foreshadowing'. Also, a "Thank you" goes out to __**Broken-Innocence**__ of HPFF / Betasrus for beta-ing._

_EDIT: As of 28 August 2007, this chapter has been edited and expanded, so as to make it lengthier._

_And now, I present to you,_ Didn't Do It.

* * *

**Didn't Do It**

**By ForeverSirius77**

* * *

_CRASH!_

The sound of glass hitting the wooden floor and shattering caused all four of the children to stand perfectly – and silently – still. Not a single one of them moved an inch or muttered a word. Even their breathing seemed to have become almost non-existent. The only thing that they could do was to stare at the floor. All eight eyes remained fixed on the broken vase at their feet.

"Look what you did," hissed the oldest boy as he glared at the two older girls. Both of them, however, just glared right back at him.

_"We_ didn't do anything, Sirius," said nine-year-old Narcissa, surveying her black-haired younger cousin through icy blue eyes. Her own blonde curls were pulled back from her porcelain face, and she looked every bit the role of a doll.

"Yes, you did," said Sirius, paying no attention to the stray bits of hair that fell into his face as he spoke. "You broke Mother's vase when –"

"Aunt Walburga won't believe you," said Bella, standing above the rest of them in all of her twelve-year-old glory. She was as opposite from her sister in appearance as possible, and resembled her dark-haired cousins far more than Narcissa's blonde and light looks. Bellatrix took after her father, inheriting the black hair and strong appearance of the Black family, while Narcissa was a carbon copy of her and Bella's mother – Druella Rosier's pale skin, blonde hair, and blue eyes had inspired great envy for years among many witches in the Pureblood community. And young Narcissa, though only nine years old, seemed set to do the same.

The two boys, on the other hand, had the classic Black appearances. Dark, ebony coloured hair fell around their light-coloured faces, and steel grey eyes – inherited from their father – were capable of piercing and unnerving nearly everyone that they met. Just as Narcissa seemed to be a copy of her mother, so did these boys greatly resemble their father, the elder more so than the younger. And at six and seven years old respectively, Regulus and Sirius Black were already being heralded as growing into "fine young men," as Aunt Lucretia constantly said.

"Cissy and I would _never_ act so childish, cousin," continued Bella, her tone the same as if she was describing the obvious fact that one plus one equals two.

"Bella –"

"What is going on in here?" said a voice from the doorway, and Regulus, the youngest member of the quartet, shut his mouth immediately, his entire response forgotten. All eyes turned to face the woman entering the room.

Walburga Black was a tall woman compared to the girls' mother; Druella stood barely over five feet, after all. She had the long, darkly-coloured hair of a Black, and the locks trailed down her narrow back as she continued towards the children. As her gaze fell upon the shattered glass littering the floor, her own dark blue eyes seemed to burn with a barely suppressed anger, and she looked at each of the children in turn, though not a one of them met her stare.

"Tell me what happened," she whispered authoritatively.

No one spoke. "All right," said Walburga, and she turned her stare to the oldest child in the group. "Bellatrix," she said, "answer me right now. Who broke the vase?"

"It was Sirius –"

"It was NOT!" yelled the accused. "You and Cissy broke it –"

"Be quiet, Sirius," hissed his mother, shooting a glare at her eldest son for a brief moment before returning it to his cousin. "How did it happen?" she asked.

"Well, we were playing in the attic," said Bella, the story falling from her lips like she knew it by heart. Her tone, however, was perfect; it did not have the monotonous level of one who is simply repeating memorised lines. Instead, there was quiet hesitation, laced with just the right amounts of guilt and sorrow to fool anyone, and her sporadic glances towards her aunt helped make the tale even more believable. Bellatrix had plenty of practice. "But there wasn't enough room," she continued. "Then, Sirius said we could come and play in here –"

"That's a lie!" exclaimed Sirius. "I said that we _couldn't_ play here –"

"Regulus," interrupted Mrs Black, not even bothering to spear Sirius another glance, but rather allowing her voice to simply carry over his objections. "Did your brother say that you could play in the drawing room?"

The six-year-old boy stood frozen for a moment. He glanced over at his brother, his cousins, and finally up at his mother.

"Well," she asked. "Is Bellatrix telling the truth, Regulus?"

A slight pause and a brief bite on his lower lip was all the hesitation that the young boy gave before, eventually, he nodded his head.

"That's not true –"

"Sirius, silence!"

"Auntie, we just got in a bit of a disagreement over what to play, and the vase sort of … got in the way …" muttered Cissy, her eyes looking down at her feet.

Walburga Black looked at all of the children again, taking in the different emotions flitting across their faces. Looks of sorrowful innocence coloured the faces of her two nieces; rage was in her eldest son's eyes; and the youngest simply looked scared. There had been many situations like this one, and the children's appearances were always the same. The results, too, were always the same. And Walburga knew that Bellatrix and Narcissa had never lied to her – Cygnus and Druella raised their girls correctly, in Walburga's opinion.

"Sirius, did you break the vase?" she asked, her stare glaring directly at her son, the earlier softness of her voice while speaking to Bellatrix having vanished.

"No."

"Do not lie to me," she hissed. "Tell me right now … Did you break the vase?"

Sirius glared at his mother as he spoke. "I didn't do it," he said. "Bella's lying." And he pointed directly at the girl.

Mrs Black sighed. "All of you, go outside and play." They all started to make their way to the door, Narcissa leading the way, but Walburga reached out and grasped her son's arm.

"Not you, Sirius," she said, waving the others onwards with her free hand.

When the rest were gone, she looked down at her son as she led him from the room. But rather than follow the other children down and out into the garden, Walburga turned right and headed up the staircase, her fingers still wrapped around her son's arm.

"You lied to me, Sirius," she said. "And you are going to stay in your room until you learn to tell the truth."

"I didn't lie!" he said, trying to free himself from his mother's grasp. "Bella's the one who's lying."

"Sirius!"

They had reached the upper level of the house and now stood in front of the door to Sirius's room. Walburga opened it and, exiting herself, locked her son inside as she walked away. She resolutely ignored his cries of "I didn't do it" as she descended the stairs.

* * *

The long, cold fingers wrapped around his arms made him shiver, and he struggled to free himself from them. They did not let go, though – They never let go.

He was led down the dark stone corridor, faces looking out at him from behind thick bars of cell doors. No one was speaking – at least, not intellectually. There was screaming, or muttering, or absolute gibberish coming from the different prisoners.

But not from him. He had not spoken upon first arriving on the island, Aurors escorting him to the stone structure's barred entrance. He did not say anything as the Dementors led him towards the highest security block of the prison. His mouth did not open as they shoved him inside the first cell, slamming the bars heavily behind him and locking him inside. It was not until the Dark creatures had floated away that he let out anything.

"I didn't do it!" he yelled. "I didn't do it!"

* * *

**_Author's__ Note_**_: Thank you for reading this bit, and I hope you enjoyed it. A great deal of this collection has been written already, so look for _Part II_ sometime in the near future. And please, let me know what you think._

_--ForeverSirius77_


	2. Part II: Nightmares

_Disclaimer__: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to me. _

_Summary__: A late night storm, nightmares, and a conversation between a young boy and his father._

_Author's__ Note__: Well, this drabble is not the original _Part II_ of this short story collection (and was not, actually, planned to be a part of it in the beginning). This drabble is several months old, and was originally written for the "Mythology O.W.L. class" on the MNFF forums. The prompt for it was to write about the relationship between Orion and Sirius, as the topic of study for the week was on Orion. Also, an edited version of this drabble managed to take third place in the May Monthly Drabble Challenge on the MNFF forums, of which "Orion Black" was the topic. _

_EDIT: As of 4 September 2007, this part has been expanded slightly._

_Now, I present for your enjoyment, _Nightmares.

* * *

**Nightmares**

**By ForeverSirius77**

* * *

"_I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection."  
--Sigmund Freud_

* * *

A full moon shone brightly through the open window of a tall building in London. Its white light fell upon a young child who, judging by his small form, could not have been older than four years old. The little boy was in his bed, tossing and turning and evidently plagued by horrible nightmares; the blankets wrapped themselves tightly around him as he moved. With a sudden jerk, the boy woke up, sitting up in his bed and pulling the blankets closer to him. 

Everything was quiet in the spacious room, for there was not even a clock to _tick _nor a portrait's occupant to talk to. Long curtains hung to each side of the tall window, a chandelier stocked with unlit candles could be seen on the ceiling, and a wooden wardrobe stood against the far left wall, the doors closed and keeping the contents from view. The intense silence of the boy's bedroom made his fear intensify, as the memory of the nightmares was still fresh in his mind.

A dog's loud bark came suddenly from outside. The noise caused the boy to jump and, forgetting about what his mother had told him about staying in his room, he got up and crept across to the door, entering the long corridor outside of his bedroom as quietly as he could. His younger brother's room was just across from him, and his parents slept on the second level of the house. Glancing at his brother's door, he sighed upon seeing it was shut – not that he had expected anything different – and he walked down the staircase leading to the next level. But he bypassed his parents' room and continued walking.

The young boy turned left and headed towards the top of the stairs that descended to the first floor and main room of the house. Pausing for a moment, he listened to the people below. He could hear the voices of his parents' guests as they floated up the stairs. There were high-pitched voices coming from several women, and a few low, gruff tones issuing from what the boy assumed to be their husbands (and possibly associates of his father). A high laugh sounded, and the boy gave a slight shudder as he recognised the voice of his aunt. He crept back into the shadows a bit more; he would be in trouble if she caught him out of bed tonight – his aunt would be sure to tell his mother – but he did not retreat back into his bedroom regardless.

Suddenly, a door to his right swung open.

"Sirius?" a voice said, and the boy, gasping slightly in shock at first, turned slowly around, his eyes meeting those of the tall, proud figure in front of him. Orion Black had thick, jet black hair and steel-coloured eyes – both qualities of which were mirrored in his son. "What are you doing out of bed, son?" he asked.

Sirius Black did not immediately respond to his father with an answer. Rather, still looking directly at the older man, he asked a question of his own.

"Is Mother with you?" His voice was quiet.

Orion sighed, now knowing the reason why his son was awake. "Another nightmare?" he asked, and as Sirius nodded in reply, Orion stepped back out of the doorway and motioned for his son to follow him into the room. When Sirius hesitated, his father responded in a gentle voice, saying, "Your mother is still downstairs, Sirius." The young boy trailed behind his father into the room, his eyes barely roaming over the many book-filled shelves lining the dark walls or the ornately carved mahogany desk that his father would sit at for hours while he worked; he did not marvel at the ancient artefacts that dotted the walls and other cabinets, nor did he pay attention to the numerous portraits of ancestors that could be seen. Rather, he simply followed his father to the leather sofa that stood before a great stone fireplace, in whose grate a fire was already crackling, and sat next to the elder wizard.

"What happened in the dream, Sirius?" Orion asked, pulling his four-year-old son into his lap. "What was it?" Sirius laid his head on his father's chest and mumbled out a reply.

"Monsters," he said quietly.

"But you know, Sirius," said Orion, attempting to bring his son's face up so that their eyes could meet. But such was a lost cause, as Sirius brought his head back to his father's chest the moment that Orion's hand had released him. "You have no need to be afraid of the monsters; they cannot hurt you." The only reply to Mr. Black's words was the continued crackling of the orange flames in the fireplace. "There are not any monsters around here, and besides, you're more powerful than they are, Sirius."

"Not in the dream," the young boy whispered, most of the words getting lost in Orion's robes. "In the dream, the monsters won, and they got me and Regulus."

Orion wrapped his arms around his son and whispered into his ear. "It was just a dream, Sirius," he said. "That is all it was. I promise that the monsters cannot get either you or Regulus here." When Sirius made a motion as to respond to his father, Orion continued. "Do you remember the stories that I told you the last time you woke up? The last time you had a nightmare about the monsters?" Sirius nodded, his eyes meeting their reflection as he finally looked up at his father, though his slight biting of his lip still gave away his fear.

"Yes," he said.

"The stories about the powerful wizards of the ancient empires who chased all of the cruel and evil monsters from their lands, saving all of the people in the villages? And how they were honoured and praised for the courage and bravery that they showed in facing the dark creatures that no one had ever dared to approach? And that their names have been documented through countless histories and families since that time, many, many centuries ago?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember some of their names, Sirius?" Orion asked his son, who buried his head back onto his father's chest before replying.

"Alexander was one," said Sirius, "and Rafael, and ..."

"And 'Sirius' was another of those wizards," finished Orion. His young son glanced back up at his father's words, his eyes wide. "That's right, son. Your name is the same as one of those powerful wizards, and it is also the name of the brightest star in the night sky. Remember?"

"I know."

"So you see, son," whispered Orion, "you have nothing to worry about with the monsters. They fear you, Sirius; you're a Black, after all – one of the greatest Wizarding families in the world – and the monsters know that. They know that you belong to such a powerful family and heritage, and that you are far greater than they could ever hope to be; the monsters know that you are much stronger than they are."

No small voice responded to the elder Black's statement; the only sounds were those of the fire's flames crackling in the grate and that of slow breathing. "Sirius?" muttered Orion, and upon getting no reply, he looked down at his son.

Sirius's eyes remained tightly shut, his black-haired head lying against the strong chest of his father, and his chest rising and falling ever so slowly with his calm and peaceful breathing as he slept. His face, too, was relaxed, and it showed no more the fear that had been upon it when he first left his room and entered his father's study.

A small smile came across Orion's face as he stared at the sleeping child on his lap, at his son whom he knew would one day grow to become a great wizard. Orion had known such a fact since the very day that Sirius was born; he had known the heir to the Black family would carve a place for himself in the history of the Wizarding World. _He is already strong, _the elder wizard thought. _But stronger still he will become. _A father always knew such things about his son, after all.

"You will be great, Sirius," he whispered. And, careful not to disturb the young boy, he rose from his seat and left the study, carrying Sirius back to his bedroom.

* * *

_Author's __Note__: Well, I hope you all enjoyed that. Like I mentioned earlier, this was not the original _"Part II"_ of _Shades of Black, _but I decided to post it here anyway, as it works better with Sirius's age at this point than posting it later would. _

_Also, I chose to portray Orion's and Sirius's characters as such for several reasons, but the main one of which is that Sirius, at four years old, hasn't really done a great deal to turn his family against him. At this point, it seems reasonable – to me, anyway – that the Blacks have no dislike towards him, and vice versa. Sirius is also portrayed as being frightened mainly for the reason that he IS only four years old, and I could see him being like many children and being a frightened child at moments; this is just one of those moments. Orion, as well, has so little known about his character that it's impossible to definitely say one way or the other how he acted. We get hints in OotP and such that Sirius's mother was horrible, but as for Orion, VERY little is known about him. _

_Anyway, thank you all for reading, and please, let me know what you think._

_--ForeverSirius77_


	3. Part III: Success?

**_Disclaimer_**_: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to me._

**_Summary_**_: They were doing it together, he said. And he helped out a friend, only to have it blow up in his face years later. __**A drabble written to demonstrate 'irony'.**_

**_Author's__ Note_**_: Well, here's_ Part III _of_ Shades of Black, _which was originally_ Part II, _before I had_ "Nightmares" _replace it. This part has been edited heavily to make it lengthier, as it was quite short and barely over the minimum word limit for the site – It was only around 505 words. Also, a "Thank You" goes out to __**Broken-Innocence**__ of HPFF / Betasrus for looking this fic over. And now, without further ado, I present for your enjoyment,_ Success?

* * *

**Success?**

**By ForeverSirius77**

* * *

A red orb was just slinking below the horizon as sunset began, the sun's rays covering the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in their light. Students were slowly making their way back inside the castle, many heading for the Great Hall for dinner before retiring to their own common rooms. Ravenclaws climbed the staircases to their tower, as did the Gryffindors, while the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs headed to the dungeons and kitchen corridor respectively, where either homework or warm beds awaited them for the night.

But not all of the members of Gryffindor House had dined with the rest of their peers in the large hall, furnished as it was with five long, wooden tables piled high with foods of every imagining and drinks to quench any thirst. No, a few members of Godric's House had skipped the meal to – dare such a thing even be thought – _study._

Several large and worn books lay scattered on the four beds in the Gryffindor fifth year boys' dormitory, all open to different points – some in the beginning, some in the middle, and some at the end. Pages were marked with scraps of parchment so as to prevent the readers from losing their place; other books were held open with other heavy tomes to pages filled with certain diagrams that detailed the numerous spells revealed and instructed within. Many paragraphs of the scholarly works were nearly unreadable, even, due to handwritten notes (in at least three different handwritings) marking up the margins of the text.

"All right, just try it again."

Three boys stood (or sat) in the dormitory, their attention focussed intently on their work. One of the boys sat on the least cluttered bed, his back leaning up against the wall, and flipped continuously through pages of one of the heavy books – the black-leather covered, golden-embroidery titled one. His hazel eyes left the page for a brief moment to look at another of the boys – a blond-haired, slightly bigger boy, who stood in the cleared centre of the dormitory, and who had his boyish face squeezed up tightly in concentration.

Such was the scene for a few moments: A scrunched up face; lips moving as if muttering or pleading; slow, calm breaths. Only the heavy _tick … tick … tick …_ of a large clock in the room broke the silence that had come over the dormitory's occupants. But it was destroyed more completely when the blonde boy hesitantly opened his eyes, almost like he was afraid of what might have occurred while he had them closed, and spoke.

"It didn't work," he said.

The third boy sighed from where he was leaning against one of the bedposts, his arms crossed over his chest. "No, it didn't," he muttered, running a hand through his black hair as he turned to face the first boy. "James, what else does that book say?"

James flipped through more of the thick pages filled with diagrams and vague, circular definitions and explanations, squinting through his glasses in an effort to read the miniscule print as he did so. "Nothing much," he said, exhaling his own sigh. "All I can find about the transformation is this one chapter, and it just says – and I quote, Sirius, – 'to look inside your core being, embracing your inner self and pulling all of the magic of your soul. Picture in your inner mind that of the magic swirling around you and through you, and imagine yourself as an animal'."

A raised eyebrow was the only response Sirius gave to the statement that James had read. "That's it?" he finally asked, still staring at his friend, who nodded wearily. "How can they call this book _'An In-Depth Analysis and Study of the Innermost Workings of Advanced Transfiguration'_ if that's it? It sounds more like Divination than Transfiguration with all that 'inner mind' talk."

"I didn't write the book, Sirius," muttered James, removing his glasses as he spoke in order to rub his eyes. "But this _is_ the most detailed account of the transformation. The other books weren't as in-depth as this one, so it _has_ to have the answer –"

"I'm never going to be able to transform." James's words were interrupted by the soft voice of the blond-haired boy, and both Sirius and James turned around to face him. He still stood in the centre of the dormitory. "We've been trying to find an answer for two months, and haven't yet –"

"So? We'll just keep looking," said James. "There's another month to go before the next full moon, so we have time."

"You'll transform, Peter," said Sirius, approaching his friend and grasping him on the shoulder. "We just need to figure out how to make it easier, and the answer's just bound to become available."

Peter smiled for a moment at his friend's reassurance, but the expression soon faded as reality settled over him. "But how?" he asked. "If the answer's not in one of these books, then it wouldn't be anywhere, right? Besides, it's fine. I don't need to come along; you and James can be with Remus –"

"No," interrupted Sirius, glaring at Peter as he spoke. "We're doing this together." Fire seemed to burn in his eyes, and both James and Peter knew what such a thing meant in Sirius. He was absolutely determined, now. Letting go of Peter's shoulder, Sirius walked over towards one of the beds – his own – and picked up another book – the one that they had deemed the 'Slytherin Book', due to its emerald green cover and title embroidered in thin, silver lines. Taking a seat at the head of the bed and leaning against the wall, he flipped through its pages quickly, turning them at such a speed it seemed almost impossible that he was really reading the words.

Suddenly, Sirius stopped, the book held open to a page near the very end of the tome, and he glanced up at Peter. There was a large smile on his face, and the black-haired teen's eyes were alight with success. "I think I found the answer," he said. "Peter, try this …" And he turned the book around so as to let the other two read the passages.

Five minutes later, the three boys had disappeared from the dormitory, only to have a stag, a dog, and a rat take their places.

* * *

There was nothing odd about that day at first, the only sounds in the crowded street being nothing out of the ordinary. People hurried to work, to school, to shops, to home. Each person was tied up in their own busy lives, and really, what reason did they have to be thinking that today would be different? It was simply the first day of November – nothing odd about that, of course.

Not even the strange people that seemed to be wandering through the cities today attracted much attention. After all, major cities always tended to attract a certain level of eccentric people, and if there happened to be people who wanted to walk around Britain in robes and cloaks, there was nothing terribly wrong with that. It was odd, yes, and citizens may have turned twice to look at the cloaked people more than once, but such things were soon put out of the minds of most.

But people had a way of being attracted to possible confrontation. There must be something about an argument, a fight, that causes people to gather just to watch. And the two, oddly dressed men on that crowded street weren't exactly pouring forth levels of peace and calmness, and although their words could not be heard, the crowd still sought to pause on the sidewalks and watch.

* * *

"Why, Peter?" he hissed. His heart hammered in his chest as he glared at the man in front of him. A cool, autumn breeze caused his robes and hair to blow in the wind, but he paid the stray bits of black hair no mind. His fingers were wrapped around the cool, ebony wood of his wand, the tool held at his side but ready to be raised in an instant. Spells and incantations were already swirling through his head, each becoming more destructive and deadly as the seconds ticked by. And each would be a fitting end for the coward in front of him.

But first, he wanted to know. He wanted to hear the traitor admit to his actions, wanted to hear him confess. "Why did you betray them?" he said.

The shorter man's voice was deathly quiet as he answered, the reply not precisely what his opponent – and former friend – had been expecting. "I didn't betray them," he said, his eyes meeting the steel-coloured orbs of the tall figure before him in a show of strength that many would never have attributed to the blonde-haired man. "You did."

"What?" But the question had barely escaped Sirius's mouth before Peter's next words echoed loudly around the crowded street, filled as it was with spectators and passers-by. And every one of them heard every last word of the blond man's exclamation. All seven words in all of their condemning glory.

"Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?"

The words barely registered in Sirius's mind before he felt a large, sudden force of magic explode in the street, sending him flying backwards and falling – hard – on to the cold concrete. The air was instantly knocked out of him, and he groaned as he struggled to sit up, an effort that resulted in failure at first. Sounds of yells and screams rang in his ears, intensifying the pain in his head originally gained from its impact with the street, and the smell of smoke and burning flesh assaulted his nose. Eventually, he succeeded in slowly pulling himself to his knees, several hisses and groans of pain escaping him as his injured body protested the movement.

What Sirius saw, however, made him want to fall right back down and close his eyes. After all, if he shut his eyes, he would soon wake up from the nightmare, right? For that was what the sight before him could only be … A horrible nightmare.

He saw the burning storefronts with their black smoke and orange flames towering upwards towards the sky. He saw the piles of rubble and debris that had gathered on the walkways. He saw the screaming and crying people huddled on the street's edge, hands clutched over mouths in horror and fingers pointing into the street. He saw the giant crater that had been blown into the solid concrete only a few metres in front of him. He saw the bodies of the dead and injured sprawled around it, blood and dirt covering their frozen or barely-moving forms.

And he saw the single, dark brown rat scuttling away from a tattered cloak, a tattered cloak with a single, bleeding finger lying on top of it.

* * *

**_Author's __Note_**_: And that's the end of this part, everyone! I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As for the irony, in case anyone didn't see it, (I'll admit it is a bit vague), the irony comes in the fact that it was Sirius who ultimately helped Peter achieve the Animagi transformation – He found the answer that resulted in the group's success – and it was that exact Animagi transformation that allowed Peter to get away after Halloween of 1981, framing Sirius for the betrayal of James and Lily and the massive murder of Muggles._

Part IV _shouldn't be too long in coming, as it doesn't need to be edited very much from its original version before it's ready for viewing. As for this part, let me know what you think!_

_--ForeverSirius77_


	4. Part IV: Recognition

_Disclaimer__: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to me. _

_Summary__: Battles are what make up a war. The Good Side fights the Evil Side, and both sides have their share of victories – and defeats. Fear, dread, tension, horror: they all seep through both sides of a conflict. There are memories; there are imaginings; there is terror; there is grief; there is life; there is death. And there is blood. __**A drabble written to demonstrate 'cliff hangers'. **_

_Author's__ Note__: All right, here it is, the fourth part of _Shades of Black, _and it's also the longest yet. Originally a 740-word drabble, it's been expanded to 4500-plus words, as well as received a new title. A massive, giant "Thank You" goes out to __**Colores **__and __**thegirllikeme **__(both of MNFF) for looking this fic over, especially considering how MUCH it changed from its original version. (Adding about 4000 words to anything will do that, of course!) Also, a "Thank You" goes to __**Broken Innocence **__of HPFF / Betasrus, for looking over the initial version of this story. And now, without further ado, I present for your enjoyment, _Recognition.

* * *

**Recognition**

**By ForeverSirius77**

* * *

"Is everyone ready for this?" 

The volume of his voice was so low, it was barely audible, but his companions were able to catch every last word. They were all quite familiar with whispered conversation; after all, silence was a formidable ally in any war, especially the deadly and dangerous conflict that they had all been experiencing for nearly a decade. Glancing behind him, he made out the distinguished forms of several witches and wizards through the shadows. The determined and set expressions on their faces were only slightly visible in the poor, late-night lighting from the moon and stars.

Every one of them nodded determinedly, some shifting their positions as they remained hidden in the shadows. Whether they did it to get a better view of their target or to become less visible was impossible to tell. All of them, however, tightened their grips on their wands, spells and incantations already flying through their individual minds in preparation of the possible battle to come. (While they _hoped _there would not be too much of a conflict, every one of the witches and wizards knew to be ready; too many had died in this war already because people had been unprepared.

"We're as ready as we can be," muttered Frank Longbottom, looking over his shoulder to survey his companions. He was third in the line, right behind the two wizards who had been chosen to lead this particular assault, regardless of their young age. Glancing at them, he continued, "We've planned this for weeks, after all."

And they had. It had been around twenty days since the information had been delivered to the Order of the Phoenix via one of Dumbledore's spies (though precisely who that was, not a single one of the witches and wizards could say). "The Dark Lord is using it as a base," the information had said. "He rarely visits it himself, but the Death Eaters do …" Unfortunately, the spy – whoever he was – had not had a great deal of _specifics _to share, just the general picture. He could not tell them _what _artefacts, documents, plans, or prisoners they could possibly find. He had only told them that around five of the Dark Lord's servants were known to use the building regularly. And any time that Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Evan Rosier, and Will Travers met in the same place, there was sure to be something of importance.

So for almost three weeks, they had put this mission together, piece by piece. All available knowledge of the building – its layout, its history, its surrounding geography, everything – had been gathered, studied, and examined. They had watched the building since the beginning, in the hopes of figuring out a pattern to the comings and goings of the followers of the Dark Lord. However, they had gained nothing from that, except to prove that the spy had, indeed, been telling the truth.

But they were ready now. Twenty days later, there could be no more planning; it was simply a time for action. The Order was prepared to strike.

And it would be _just _the Order: mistrust in the Ministry of Magic ran high lately, especially as more and more government officials proved to be loyal to Voldemort. Whether they served him willingly or not, it did not matter. A wizard under the Imperius Curse could be trusted just as much as an outright Death Eater could, and the Order had ceased taking the unnecessary risk of involving the Ministry.

A cloud shifted in the sky, revealing a nearly full moon that gleamed down on the grounds and provided more light. The outline of their target – though it had been impossible to miss even in the pitch black darkness of earlier – became even more pronounced.

Everyone looked at the tall, massive structure in front of them. It was located only a few metres from where they stood hidden in the cover of the surrounding dark forest, whose trees were close enough to each other to provide ample amounts of protection for the group. The building's thick stone walls towered towards the night sky. No lights shone through the high, glass windows, and heavy, iron gates kept out unwanted visitors – most of the time, that is. There were no sounds coming from within the building, and even the gardens in the front of the manor seemed undisturbed; no footprints could be seen in the dirt, and the grass and weeds grew all over the place, evidently displaying a lack of care and upkeep by the home's owner. At a quick glance, it would not appear that anyone was – or had recently been – inside the building.

The members of the Order of the Phoenix, who were currently gathered in the forest, however, knew better. Information gathered over the past weeks told them so. They knew that the manor wasn't empty. Just like they knew the moment had come.

"It's time," said one of the leading wizards, glancing over to the person on his right. He frowned slightly when he noticed the tightness and increased paleness on his friend's face. "Sirius?" he asked. But he received no response; his friend did not appear to have heard him.

Sirius Black's gaze remained focussed on the building, his stare so intense that he had not even noticed the extremely tight grip with which he held his wand – a grip that, if it was any tighter, would surely snap the wooden instrument in half – and nor did he hear the voice of his companion call to him. A sharp, tingling feeling that felt both hot and cold at the same time raced up and down his spine, causing him to shiver involuntarily. He could feel the oppressive levels of Dark magic that oozed from the building, enveloping and wrapping themselves around the stone. The intuitive feeling towards the Dark Arts, developed after years of growing up around them, dwelled in his blood. Although everyone, regardless of blood purity, could recognise different types of magic – mainly that between Dark and Light – those with a purer bloodline had a more subtle recognition towards certain types of magic, especially to those of which they were constantly exposed.

And for Sirius, that just happened to be the darker version.

But the Dark magic was not the only thing freezing up the wizard's usually quick mind. Sights and sounds assaulted his senses, and he could not tell if they were fiction or reality, memory or nightmare. Fragmented flashes of something – memory, fear, he did not know – swept through his head, moving too fast for him to place even if he had wanted to.

_Dark rooms; shadows broken only by an occasional candle. Muffled voices – whispers – from cloaked figures. Screams breaking the quiet, but quickly stifled. Voices. _

"—_doesn't believe he's far –" The voice is gruff and low; the speaker is male, definitely. But it's impossible to tell more than that._

"—_not ready yet." _

"_No matter –" A familiar voice; he knows her, but doesn't want to. Family always knows one another, though. Blood recognises blood, after all. _

"_It's almost time." _

_Too many voices. Undistinguishable muttering. _

_Footsteps – at least five sets, maybe more. A banging door, a clicking lock. Blinding light. Too bright. _

"_Hold him down." Another voice; it is somewhat familiar. Who is it?_

_More sounds, footsteps, and then grabbing. Fingers are wrapping around his arms, pulling him back, bringing him down. But instinct rises up. Fight; struggle. Pain and more screaming – Everything hurts … Hot. Cold … so very cold. _

_A new voice. Or an old one? He can't tell. "Are you ready?" _

"_Everything must be erased –" _

"_He can't remember anything." She's speaking again, the woman he knows … but doesn't want to. "The Dark Lord's orders –"_

"_Of course … _Obliviate_!" _

_No pain, no cold. It's gone – disappeared. No light … Darkness … Bliss … _

"_Sirius?"_

_He knew that voice … But it didn't fit with the others. "Sirius?"_

"Sirius?"

He broke free of the images as a hand grasped his shoulder, giving him a slight shake. Blinking, he tried to force the residual pictures away, taking a deep breath before turning to his friend. But bits and pieces continued to flicker: _"It should have worked –" Shivering in the icy cold. Faint echoes of voices. "—thought you said there was no resistance …" Pitch darkness, then bright light. "—growing weaker, his strength is failing; let's try again –" Muttered incantations … _And no matter how many images he saw or how hard he tried to remember, he could not – did not even know if he _should _remember anything.

"Everything all right?" James Potter's voice was quiet as he spoke, the words only loud enough for the dark-haired man next to him to hear. James's eyes grew worried as Sirius failed to respond.

The paleness in Sirius's face grew heavier, and his intense gaze on the building became even more focussed.

"Sirius –"

"Yeah," muttered Sirius, pulling his stare from the manor for the first time that night and glancing at his friend. His heart rate had fallen back to a normal pace; the flashing images in his mind were slowly disappearing. Returning James's action of a grasp on the shoulder, he continued, "Everything's fine … I'm fine, Prongs."

"_He can't remember anything."_

"You're sure?"

"Positive," said Sirius, an expression between that of a smile and a smirk spreading across his face. "It's nothing, really. I was just thinking …"

"About?"

Sirius's grin grew wider, and a mischievous twinkle entered his eyes. "About how much _fun_ tonight should be. What else?" But Sirius didn't give James a chance to answer. "Let's go."

The last two words were spoken to the other seven people in the group as Sirius looked over his shoulder at every one of them. He still felt James's stare on him and knew his friend wasn't completely reassured that he was all right, but now was simply not the time to dwell on it. As long as the images stayed away – _Where are they from, anyway? _he thought – he would be fine. There would be plenty of time after this mission to try and figure everything out, to try and remember – if he was _meant _to remember.

Now, however, the focus needed to be on the mission, on the target. Distraction would only result in defeat.

As one solid group, the members of the Order crept out from the forest's cover, their darkly-coloured robes providing them with camouflage as they snuck closer towards the building. Their footsteps were silent, the thick grass muffling even the smallest of sounds, and they all allowed themselves a bit of hope. Perhaps everything _would _go according to plan, and they would succeed in sneaking in unidentified. Halfway between the forest's edge and the doors to the manor, such seemed like a strong possibility: there was still no sign of opposition, no sign that the occupying Death Eaters even knew the Order was there. A few more steps, and the silence continued; the wizards and witches continued on their way unimpeded. They were three-quarters of the way there; just ten more steps and they would be able to touch the front doors –

The front doors that suddenly burst open, banging back against the stone walls and revealing a room flooded with bright light. A stream of darkly-robed figures exited the manor, wands in their hands and firing spells at the approaching members before anyone had a chance to shout a warning. James's shout of "Take cover!" was about a half second too late.

"_Circumvolo!" _

Michelle Waterstone went spinning through the air as the Death Eater's spell hit her squarely in the chest. Her scream echoed in the night – until it was suddenly silenced by her body's impact with the iron gate, whose top, pointed spike found itself piercing through the 24-year-old witch's stomach.

Alexander Rogers fell as Travers shouted, _"Caedes maximum!" _and gashes erupted all over his frail form, bleeding profusely and unceasingly. He was not even given the chance to scream: it only took Rogers a few seconds to bleed to death.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _shouted the leading Death Eater – _Rodolphus? Dolohov? _Sirius thought, but it was too dark to fully identify him. The bright, green light charged through the air, barely missing Frank Longbottom as the Auror dove to the ground. Sirius sent a Stunning Spell at the Death Eater, but the Dark wizard threw up a shield at the last possible moment, smirking as Sirius was forced to dodge his own spell.

"_Reducto!" _Frank's voice echoed as he fired the spell from his position on the ground, sending it directly into the wall above the entrance of the manor. It impacted the stone, shattering it and sending the debris flying at the group of Death Eaters, most of whom saw the tumbling rocks soon enough to gain some protection. Frank's attacker, however, wasn't one of them, and a particularly large stone sent the man flying down the steps.

Spells, shouts, and screams came from both sides of the battle as the night wore on. Bright lights in a multitude of colours – red, green, blue, purple, black, white – hurled through the air from the tips of dozens of wands. Some managed to hit their intended targets – like Rodolphus Lestrange's Cruciatus Curse that sent Dorcas Meadowes to the ground, screaming and twitching in agony. James's Body-Bind Curse caused Dolohov to collapse into a bush that James ardently hoped contained thorns. Bellatrix's Stunning Spell hit Alice Longbottom, inadvertently saving the female Auror from a Killing Curse sent her way by Adrian Wilkes, while Mulciber happened to get in the way of Sirius's Stinging Hex. Other spells just impacted solid objects like trees or walls, or each other in the air, deflected from their original victim.

At the beginning, the battle had seemed to be pretty evenly matched – nine Order members against twelve Death Eaters – but soon more and more followers of the Dark Lord came outside to fight. It was like a never-ending wave of black as the figures surged forwards, their wands raised and incantations on their tongues. Spells turned far more deadly as time went on, and green became the predominant colour coming from the Death Eaters. Shouts of _"Crucio!" _and _"Avada Kedavra!" _were interspersed with other incantations of Dark curses, but the members of the Order of the Phoenix continued fighting back. None had permanently fallen, other than Rogers and Waterstone, though injuries were growing. Things in the battle were becoming worse. There were just too many Death Eaters, and many of the Unforgivables barely managed to miss their intended victims, the beams of light coming far too close for comfort.

When Adrian Wilkes sent a broken beam of the destroyed front doors straight into the chest of Marcia Penn, killing her instantly, and Jonathan Bennett fell into the path of Travers's Carnificus Curse, beheading the former Ravenclaw before he had a chance to scream, the Order members knew it was over. There were only five of them left alive, all of whom were injured in some way, and the Death Eaters just continued coming.

"Get back!" exclaimed Frank, though the words barely made it out of his mouth before they were cut off by a scream; a particularly nasty curse had torn a deep gash into his right shoulder. The Auror stumbled backwards, clutching his bleeding arm as he sent a curse at the Death Eater who had attacked him. The spell missed.

"To the forest!" Alice's voice followed her husband's, and the members of the Order began their retreat to the outer edge of the forest – the point where Apparition was possible. Fighting their way back, they clutched the fallen bodies of their companions. Whether through Summoning Spells or human strength, the dead bodies of Waterstone, Rogers, Penn, and Bennett made it to the forest's edge. And one by one, as each member of the Order reached the safety point – still firing spells at the pursuing Death Eaters – they Disapparated away.

Not a single one of them realised that one of their number did not manage to hear the call for retreat.

As the battle wore on, Sirius had grown separated from the rest of the Order. One way or another, (he didn't quite remember how), he had ended up on the far side of the building, opposite of the forest and hidden from its edge by the stone manor. He and his opponent were cloaked in the heavy shadows of the late night; the stone manor blocked what little light the moon and nearby battle could have provided them.

Both Sirius and the Death Eater bore slight injuries. A bleeding gash in the Death Eater's shoulder caused his left arm to be almost useless, but he was right-handed, so the effect wasn't large. Sirius suffered from at least one injury in his right knee that severely limited his mobility. A few scratches and bruises were added to these wounds, but still, the men fought. It was a duel that had been going for several minutes, neither wizard ever seeming to get the upper hand. The Death Eater would stumble from Sirius's curse, but he would retaliate just as quickly, his own spell creeping past the defences of the Order member. Their wands blurred as spells – both verbal and non-verbal – were hurled in quick succession, impacting shields, each other, and their intended targets.

A scream suddenly tore through the air, the voice laced with agony. _James? Frank? _Sirius couldn't even tell who it was who had issued the cry, just that it was someone familiar, but that knowledge wasn't the most important thing. The scream had caused him to have a momentary lapse in concentration, taking a split second too long to respond to the Death Eater's spell. Sirius's Shield Charm didn't make it up in time, and the Death Eater's spell blasted right through the feeble barrier, sending Sirius flying back into the stone wall of the manor. His own cry of pain escaped him as his head impacted the wall, and blackness temporarily took over his sight. Blinking furiously, he tried to clear his vision, tried to force the blackness to recede and his opponent to come into focus.

He saw a blurry shape in front of him and assumed that such was the Death Eater. He raised his wand to fire a spell, knowing even as he did so that it was too late. A hissed _"Expelliarmus!" _from the other wizard tore Sirius's wand from his grip.

Glancing up, Sirius saw the Death Eater standing directly above him, his darkly-robed form blending into the shadowed night, and both his and Sirius's wands held in his hand. Sirius's heart was pounding in his chest, and he knew that this was it. This was how he would die … and it was not exactly in the way he had expected. Never before had Sirius thought that he'd die sitting on a grassy floor at the feet of some nameless, faceless Death Eater. Never had he thought it would be because of his own foolishness; he _knew _better than to be distracted in a duel. Pain throbbed in his head, and he could feel the sticky substance in his hair; there had to be a cut from his impact with the wall.

"—_doesn't have a choice."_

"_He wants him dead, you know –" _

The images were back.

_Hot and cold. A tingling feeling racing through his body, making him shiver. Whispers, mutterings. There are more voices. At least a dozen this time. _

"_Not yet –" An unknown voice, one he'd never heard before. _

_Footsteps. Some running; some walking … at least one simply shuffling. He thinks so, anyway. Pitch blackness makes it impossible to see. Bright light flares to life, again making seeing impossible. Blinded either with darkness or light, it doesn't matter; the result is the same. _

_He cannot see … He cannot move … He cannot remember. _

"_You don't understand! Resistance will increase, not –"_

Sirius tried to tear his mind from the memories, from the thoughts, from whatever the hell they were. Now was not exactly a good time for him to be losing any focus.

Still, just because he wanted them to stop, tried with all his power to get them to stop, didn't mean that they obeyed. Rather, they ignored his attempts.

_Shouting. Screaming. "You know who I am, don't you?" _

_He does, but he doesn't want to. It is all so hot … or so cold … either, neither, both … He doesn't know._

"_Everything must be erased –"_

Dragging up the will from somewhere deep inside, Sirius forced the images to stop, to fade, or at the very least, dim into the background. _Not now, _he thought, his grey eyes still staring at the tall figure in front of him. He didn't know how long the thoughts, the memories, had kept him … And yet, the Death Eater remained unmoving, just surveying him through the eyes of a silver mask. There was hesitation in him, Sirius realised, and he knew that he had to act, had to try _something_, wandless or not.

Another scream echoed in the night, and as the Death Eater turned his head slightly in the direction of the battle, Sirius took his chance. He leapt from the ground and headed towards the Dark wizard in an effort to seize a wand – any wand. Sirius grabbed onto his opponent's sleeve, surprising the other wizard enough that his first Stunning Spell soared over Sirius's head and hit a nearby flower bush.

The second, however, barely missed him. Sirius twisted out of the way of the spell's path and reached once more towards the Death Eater's outstretched hand, paying no attention to the double-vision caused by his still-bleeding head injury. His fingers brushed the cool, ebony wood of his wand just seconds before he felt the tip of the Death Eater's wand pressed against his chest.

"_Caedes Saucio!" _cried the Death Eater.

Sirius turned just enough to keep the curse from hitting him in the chest and wounding him fatally, but not enough to dodge the spell entirely. It still tore a bloody and jagged wound in his shoulder and sent a fiery pain shooting through his arm. He cried out, and the shock was enough to cause Sirius's fingers to slip from his wand. He stumbled backwards, due to a combination of the new injury and his still-swimming sight, and Sirius hardly heard the words of his opponent as the Death Eater fired another spell.

"_Incarcerous!" _he exclaimed, and Sirius fell back to the ground as the ropes twisted around his wrists and ankles, binding him tightly. He barely managed to keep his head from banging against the manor's wall a second time.

_Shit, _he thought, breathing heavily and trying to still his racing heart. His sight was blurry from the loss of blood, and blackness wanted to creep into his vision, but Sirius stubbornly blinked it back. The wound in his shoulder definitely wasn't helping matters, either, and fiery pain shot down his arm continuously. _Damnit. _Half-heartedly, Sirius struggled against the bindings, hoping for any sort of give in them that might cause the ropes to break.

There wasn't, and they didn't.

Looking up, he met the gaze of the Death Eater standing in front of him. Remarkably, the other wizard had managed to keep his mask on all throughout his fight with Sirius. _Hell, he doesn't even look like he was _in _a fight, _Sirius thought bitterly, biting back a cry as another wave of agony tore through his arm. He could no longer feel his fingers in that hand, and he knew that was a bad sign; he didn't need to examine the wound to know that it needed healing immediately.

Sirius's sight swam, and he blinked away the dizziness. But even as he did so, he knew. As his breathing returned to normal and his heart rate slowed from its frantic pace of earlier, as the adrenaline slowly left him, he knew. Sirius's mind told him that the game had surely ended now.

The Dark wizard, however, just kept his wand pointed at Sirius's chest. He spoke no words, no incantations, nothing. He was still hesitating, it seemed. But as for why, the dark-haired wizard hadn't the faintest idea. _Unless … _The thought filled Sirius with a horror that made him cease that train of thought immediately. It was a fear that seemed to paralyse him, a dread that he couldn't ever remember feeling before – although a part of him told him that he should.

_Screams. Voices. Too much pain … too cold …_

"_He's ready for –"_

"_It is time."_

Sirius's eyes remained on the other wizard, even as the images tried to reassert themselves in his mind's eye. Fear grew stronger in him as the time continued to tick by. The Death Eater did not move an inch. Surely he would have killed Sirius by now, if he was going to.

Or did his opponent just plan on letting Sirius bleed to death?

He hoped not.

_All right, _Sirius thought to himself, trying to shove the pain and fear away. _Think of a way out of this mess. _But nothing came, no matter how hard he tried. Fear, horror, dread, pain … the emotions were paralysing him, cutting off all thought.

If the Death Eater wasn't going to kill him, then he had another fate in mind, a fate that Sirius did not even want to contemplate. Although, the emotions that were freezing him up would let him think of nothing else.

The number of witches and wizards known to have been captured by the Death Eaters wasn't precisely a very high number; outright killing seemed to be more in their arena than holding captives, after all. But such a fate had happened.

Angela Reynolds had disappeared from her home, only to be found during a raid on a Death Eater stronghold eight months later. She never made it to St. Mungo's for treatment of her injuries.

Michael and David Carter – both Aurors – were taken by Voldemort's followers during a battle. It was two years before they were found in an area of known Dark activity.

Their bodies were in pieces.

Disappearances and captures were not anything new, they were just rare. And everyone knew that death was usually preferable.

"_You're sure?" _

"_He won't remember a single thing." _

A motion caught Sirius's eye, helping to tear his mind from the images. For a moment, he thought that the Death Eater was finally going to do something other than stare at him. Perhaps he hadn't planned on capturing him at all and was just now finding the ability to kill him. Such a thought made Sirius want to curse himself once again for his foolishness at not only being distracted, but being distracted by an _inexperienced _Death Eater.

_This is it, _he thought, knowing that he didn't have a way out this time: the ropes wouldn't give and he could barely see straight. He braced himself for the curse, not knowing if doing so made any difference at all. Vaguely, a part of him wondered if it hurt to die; it wasn't like anyone had ever given an answer to the question, after all. So, it was a valid concern.

But the Death Eater did not wave his wand or say any spell. Instead, he slowly tore the mask from his face, letting the object fall to the ground at his feet. Sirius, whose mind was torn instantly from thoughts of death or pain, paid no attention to the mask. He just stared at the Death Eater, whose face looked so like his own.

"Regulus?"

* * *

_Author's__ Note__: Whew! Working on this part was exhausting – but incredibly enjoyable as well. _Part IV _was originally called _"Brother," _inspired by the ending of the piece, of course, but as I basically rewrote it while making it lengthier and more detailed, other aspects of the story came out, and I came to the conclusion that _"Brother" _didn't fit too much with the entire story, and thus a title of _"Recognition" _was born. _

_I do have ideas for a sequel/companion piece to this part, (the prologue for it has been floating in my head since I finished _"Recognition", _actually). As of now, the sequel will be posted as a separate story, tentatively titled _"Recovery," _though that is _very_ subject to change. A continuation of _Part IV _had always been in the back of my head, especially since the literary element being demonstrated was that of 'cliff hangers', and as I was rewriting it now, a lot more of the story came out – Sirius's thoughts/memories/imaginings/whatever you want to call them, for example. Whether they're real or not, that is the question. And if they are, what exactly do they mean? (Don't worry; I do have the answers, and you can find out in the sequel.)_

_Anyway, thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much I did writing it, and please, don't hesitate to let me know what you think. _

_--ForeverSirius77_


	5. Part V: He Laughed

_Disclaimer__: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything you do not recognise does belong to me._

_Summary__: It was just another normal day – or so it seemed. But he had to confront him, he wanted to understand. And only two words were needed to make the other perish. But things don't always turn out as they were planned._

_Author's__ Note__: Yes, I know it's been awhile, and for that, I apologise. (I got a little caught up in some other stories – mainly that of the sequel for _Part IV: Recognition, _entitled, _Thoughts in the Abyss _that has since been posted.) But, better late than never, right? Anyway, here's the fifth part for _Shades of Black, _finally edited and ready for posting. (Oh, and there _is_ a slight language warning for this part.) A "Thank You" goes out to __**Broken-Innocence**__ for looking over the initial version of this part. And now, without further ado, I present for your enjoyment, _He Laughed.

* * *

**He Laughed**

**By ForeverSirius77**

* * *

The beginning of the new month brought nothing out of the ordinary to it, at least as far as the majority of people felt when they awoke on the first of November. Cool, autumn winds lent their breezes to keep the temperature at a degree where a jacket was usually needed, and the bright, orange sun had kept itself hidden behind clouds for the majority of the past week. Today's weather, if one happened to take notice of it, seemed to be no different than the previous days' forecasts had been.

As the morning stretched on, the many clocks around the city starting to report a far more 'reasonable' time for people to be awake, the traffic had steadily increased, the groups of people slowly growing. Children and teenagers had already started to head off to school for the day, while their parents made their own ways to their places of employment. There were people out for a simple day of shopping, not having any other obligations to take care of, while others were purchasing their weekly items for home.

Mothers tried to control their young children – most of whom seemed to be wanting to do nothing else but act as hyperactive as they could – while some of the more 'older' and 'dignified' shoppers looked on with a sneer marring their 'perfect' faces. Bells tinkled as doors to shops opened, alerting the storeowners to an arriving or departing customer, and the occasional sounds of a horn could be heard coming from the moving automobiles.

There were even the sights of some more eccentric people – or, if one wanted to be a bit rude, the 'weirdoes' – that travelled the sidewalks on this autumn morning. Now, the rare appearance of some of these individuals was not, in itself, very out-of-place for this large town. After all, it seemed to be common things with big cities to have a few odd people wander through.

But if it looked like there were more of those 'weirdoes' today than there had been in the past, or if it looked like they were particularly overexcited about something, people did not really pay it all that much notice. Everyone was, as was always the case, nearly completely focussed on their own business.

So, all in all, it was a very normal day.

Or so it seemed.

* * *

He was hurriedly making his way down the sidewalk, neither going slow enough to be considered "walking", but nor was his pace quick enough to be defined as a "run". The sun was currently peaking out from behind its cloud cover for one of its brief stages, and the crowds of people pushed in on him. He pushed his own way through the growing groups of Muggles, not paying them any attention – other than the attention required for him to try his hardest not to physically push them _too _hard out of his way.

The tall, dark-haired man _couldn't _spare his attention for something as trivial as acting politely towards the other people. He could not afford to travel at such a leisurely slow pace as everyone else wanted to do. His sight was instead focussed on a single individual that was several metres in front of him. The other man had not seemed to notice that he was being followed; he was too busy making his own way through the Muggles – and he showed even less regard to their well-being than the dark-haired one following him did.

Sirius Black followed the shorter man as he turned the corner, heading down another street and temporarily disappearing from Sirius's sight. "Damn it," he muttered, quickening his pace and ignoring the glares that the group of ladies he'd burst through had shot him. (Whether their glare had been because of his muttered cursing or because of his breaking through their group, he did not know. But, really, it didn't matter.)

Barely a few seconds had passed before Sirius rounded the corner, his searching eyes finding the man he'd been following, and he grinned when he took the few steps needed to catch up to him, Sirius's smile seeming to grow more predatory as he got closer.

His prey had been trapped. The street he had turned down in his haste was a dead end – a line of storefronts, the areas in front of them crowded with shoppers, stood at the shorter man's back, blocking any other way out other than the one he had entered from.

And that escape was, unfortunately for him, being blocked by his pursuer.

"Well, Sirius," started the shorter man, looking up at his friend – and his pursuer – but the taller man did not give him a chance to continue.

"I trusted you," hissed Sirius, stalking closer and closer to Peter Pettigrew, paying no attention to the fact that the groups of Muggles had slowed to watch the confrontation between the two of them. He could not really focus on anything _except _the man in front of him, after all.

Sirius held his ebony wand loosely at his side, incantations of spells flying through his mind as he stared at his friend – no, his _former _friend. His fingers kept clenching and tightening around the cool wood, like he wanted either nothing more than to lift the wand to curse Pettigrew – or to forget the wand altogether and physically strangle the man.

But he did not raise his wand, as much as a large part of him wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. But no, not yet. He could not bring himself to raise the magical weapon _just _yet. There was another part of him, and it was a part that, though small, wanted to understand first. Sirius _needed _to understand.

"Why?" he asked, pausing for the first time in his pursuit. Peter still stood a few feet in front of him; he was not close enough to touch (and perhaps such was a good thing, as the temptation to physically harm Pettigrew was growing more every second), but neither was his former friend so far away that either of them had to shout to be heard. A quiet conversation between two men – one that could have been shared gathered in a parlour or at a dinner table – took place. Private, yet not. Separate, yet not.

"Why did you do it, Peter?" he continued. There was even just a small hint of pleading in his voice, but one would have had to know what to listen for to even hear it – and even then, they would have more than likely dismissed it. After all, Sirius Black just did not _plead _with anyone. "We all trusted you … James, Lily, me … Why?"

Peter started to shake his head. "It wasn't me, Sirius –"

That was it. That was the final straw for Sirius, the one that pushed him too far. How could Peter just stand there and _deny_ what he'd done? How could he tell an outright lie to the _one_ person who _knew _that it _was_ a lie? How could he say that it wasn't him?

Sirius raised his wand, taking the final few steps to stand directly in front of Peter, his taller height causing him to look down at the shorter man. He pointed the tip of his wand directly at the chest of his friend, the spells and curses now flying through his head at a far faster pace than earlier. Just one spell, he knew, was all that was needed. Just one, simple curse – only two words – and the betrayer would perish.

He did not care about the growing crowds of observing Muggles on the scene. He did not care that the majority of them had completely ceased their own activities and movements to stand still on the sidewalks, street, and in front of store windows to watch the tense scene taking place between the two wizards. He did not care that any action on his part would cause the Ministry a world of chaos with having to deal with such an outright display of magic to so many Muggles.

Sirius Black did not care about anything at that particular moment other than Peter Pettigrew.

"You betrayed them." His voice was low, almost muttering, yet his tone was urgent. It was like he needed to get a great deal spoken in a short amount of time, like he had a lot to say but could not seem to find the right words to express it. There were too many thoughts fighting for dominance in his mind, too many emotions coursing through his blood, for him to think clearly. Anger – hatred – sadness – guilt – disgust – numbness – He felt them all.

Sirius's heart rate increased and his breathing grew ragged as he barely held the first two emotions in check. But the others interfered just as much, and he could not think. He could not believe everything that had happened in such a short time … and that it was all the fault of the man in front of him – a man he had trusted with the life of his brother.

A man who he had also seen as a brother for over a decade.

A man who he would have died to protect.

A man who had utterly betrayed every bit of trust he had given him.

A man who was a traitor.

For that single, brief instant, Sirius's grip on his wand relaxed slightly and the weapon lowered just a few centimetres as he was lost in his thoughts – thoughts that were suddenly torn away by a forceful and giant shove that sent him stumbling back and barely managing to remain standing. As he struggled with keeping himself from falling, he barely managed to register the words of his friend.

"Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?"

_What? _he thought, his mind seeming to work slower to process the seven condemning words that were hurled loud enough for the entire street to hear. But when they did finally register, Sirius felt his anger shoot to an intensity that he could never recall feeling. _How _dare_ he? _he thought. _That fucking traitorous rat bastard! _He looked up, glared at his friend, and raised his wand with the incantation on his lips –

But he never had the chance to utter it as the ground suddenly shook, the force causing him to lose his already very unsteady footing and fall to the ground, flying backwards with the force of the explosion and slamming into the ground. Rocks and other debris erupted into the air and pelted down on top of him and the rest of the street. Concrete cracked and screams echoed in his head as he tried to recover himself enough to sit up and see what had happened.

The screams and cries seemed to grow even louder, though, when Sirius managed to make it to his knees to take in the whole sight again.

The street that he and Peter had been on was now in complete ruins; it really didn't even look too much like a street anymore, if he was honest. A giant hole stood in the middle of the road, likely the centre of the explosion and looking like a meteor had crashed into it. Piles of rubble were all around the crater, and pieces of broken concrete and wood and glass fragments (it looked like a few windows had been blown in) from the nearby shops dotted the sidewalks. The previously calm, yet curious, watching crowds of Muggles were now crying and screaming as they, too, took in the scene of destruction. Many of them were also bleeding from their own injuries, stumbling around the destruction in the street as they wandered aimlessly.

Some, unfortunately, were not even moving anymore, their bodies crushed under the mounds of rubble.

It took Sirius a brief moment for his mind – still muddled as it was and taking an unusually long time to comprehend things – to wrap itself around all that had just happened. He blinked, shook his head, anything to try and convince himself that the sight before him wasn't real. Surely, things could not have gone so wrong _again _in such a brief time?

_Peter._

The thought caused him to cease his denials and scan the area around him, his grey eyes trying to catch just the briefest glimpse of the short, blond man who was the cause of all of this – and more. But he couldn't see him. He wasn't there. He had managed to get away again –

But then, Sirius's eyes caught sight of the pile of cloth on the ground, laying only a few feet from him – and right where Pettigrew had been.

Peter's emerald-coloured cloak lay torn and bloodstained next to him. And on top of the damaged fabric was the only bit of his former friend that Sirius could see in all the destruction.

The bleeding bit of a forefinger lay on the cloak, its end cut clean and smoothly – a cut that was as clean as only one from a very sharp knife could be.

Sirius hesitantly reached out, his hand centimetres from discarded finger, but he jerked back suddenly as another sound caught his attention amidst all the screams and cries of the Muggles.

A loud _squeak _tore into his mind, and as he turned his head in the direction of the brief sound, Sirius caught a fleeting glimpse of a small, dark brown rat fleeing into the piles of debris, vanishing soon out of sight as it ran in the opposite direction of Sirius.

And Sirius laughed. He laughed at the fleeing rat. He laughed at the fact that the guilty party was going free – and as he heard the telltale signs of Apparition, he laughed at the fact that the innocent was going to pay for the guilty's crimes.

He laughed as the Aurors approached him, their wands focussed on his shaking form. He laughed as they looked at him with a combination of shock and disgust. He laughed as they bound his wrists and took his wand. He laughed as they led him away.

Sirius Black laughed at the irony of it all.

Because laughing was all that kept him from crying.

* * *

_Author's__ Note__: Well, there it is, and I hope you all enjoyed it! And yes, I'm aware of the fact that I wrote the confrontation between Sirius and Peter in the latter half of _Part III: Success? _and it was an interesting experience trying to both tell the same scene from the same point of view, without making it either too repetitive or contradictory. So, how did I do, do you think? Did it work? Please, let me know! _

_Also, feel free to go and check out _Recognition_'s sequel. It's got the first two chapters already posted, and I'm really enjoying writing that fic (not that I don't enjoy writing ALL my fics, of course)! Yeah, I know, shameless plug … But anyway, go check it out, and let me know your thoughts on it as well. _

_In short, though, thank you so much for reading this part, and I appreciate every review that I get, of course. I'm not 100 percent sure when I'll get _Part VI: Innocent _out, as there's some extensive editing that needs to take place with that particular part, but I'll try to not let it go by too long … like this gap. Apologises to readers once again._

_--ForeverSirius77_


	6. Part VI: Wake Up

_Disclaimer__: Anything that you recognise does not belong to me, however much I wish that it did. Instead, it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I'm just playing with her creations for the time being. However, anything that you do not recognise does belong to me, unless otherwise stated. _

_Summary__: He kept telling himself that he wasn't there, that everything was just a nightmare. Only a nightmare, and he would surely wake up from the darkness soon. No matter how horrible a nightmare was, it always came to an end … And then, he would wake up. He would wake up from this nightmare. __**A drabble written to demonstrate 'flashbacks'. **_

_Author's__ Note__: Yes, I'm well aware of how long it's been since I updated this story. My main reason (other than working on other stories and real life) is that I was trying too hard to make the original _"Part VI" _of this story work. However, no matter what I was doing to it, it just wouldn't work. I couldn't really expand it without it losing the quality that it originally had. As such, I'll now be posting that sixth part – _Innocent _– in my drabble collection, _Bits and Pieces_, sometime in the future. This, however, is the original _"Part VII" _– with a bit of the sixth part worked in at places. So, now that I've delayed an update on this story for long enough, I'll quit rambling and let you get to the story. I present for your reading enjoyment, _Wake Up.

* * *

**Wake Up**

**By ForeverSirius77**

* * *

_"Dumbledore said the Fidelius Charm was the best option," muttered James, his hair still soaking wet from encountering the storm outside. "He said we should probably cast it soon, and then we started talking about who to choose as a Secret-Keeper …" James trailed off, but his meaning was clear._

_"You want me to be your Secret-Keeper," said Sirius. It wasn't a question; he knew he friend too well for there to be any doubt in his mind, now that he'd heard James's story, why he had needed to talk to him that night and had braved a storm to do so. There was also no question in regards to what his answer would be._

_"We trust you," James said simply. "Out of everyone, you're the one that Lily and I trust the most, and you're Harry's godfather as well. Padfoot, we –"_

_"Of course I'll do it," Sirius interrupted, staring at his friend all the while. "You don't have to try and convince me, Prongs. Brothers look out for each other, after all."_

A loud crash of thunder tore the lone man from his thoughts – but whether or not he was grateful for such action, he could never really know. Sometimes, the realms of his mind were much more pleasant than dwelling in reality; sometimes, he was not grateful in the slightest when he was torn from the running threads of memories in his head.

His thoughts had been all over the place within the past days … or was it weeks? _Months?_ Surely not that long, though he would easily admit that keeping track of something as insignificant as the passage of time – such a _normal _thing that was, time – was not very high on his list of priorities. Being away from a clock was a minor discomfort, insignificant to him where he was. What did it matter to him if two weeks had passed, rather than two days? Or even if it _had _been months, why did he care?

What good would that knowledge be to him?

Hours, days and nights, they all bled into each other in here. Differentiating between them, keeping track of them, did not matter. Not when there were other, far more important, far more _necessary, _things that a person should keep track of. Losing the knowledge of how much time had elapsed since the beginning was a price that he would definitely pay to keep a hold on everything else.

His mind. His heart. His _soul. _

Yet with every passing … well, stretch of time, such a grasp grew harder and harder to keep.

He could feel his grasp, tenuous at best, slipping all of the time. Like trying to cling to a railing, the smooth, wet metal causing his fingers to slip and slide. Constantly, he had to re-grip it, his hands changing position each time. Trying to pull himself up – away from the danger of falling and back to the safety of solid ground – was not even a consideration; it was all that he could do _just _to keep himself from falling. Just to maintain that grip.

He could _not _let that grip fail.

But that will, that focus on such a single, important goal, kept being hounded, tested. _They _wanted him to fail. And they waited for it – for _they _knew that everyone, no matter who they were, no matter how much they fought to maintain their grasps, always failed in the end.

There was only one result.

Failure was all that awaited; success was impossible.

Such was the way that it was. Always.

_Columns of smoke rose to the sky, their dark colour blending well into the night's blackness. They blotted out the few, twinkling stars that tried to shine tonight. Orange flames flickered as they licked at the wood of what once was a large, beautiful home. The white walls were now a charred black; the polished silver doorknob was spotted in ash from the remains of the front door. _

_He paid little attention to his bike as he got off; his focus was purely on the sight in front of him. Just hours ago, the house had been standing unharmed … There had been no fire, no smoke, no debris. _

_This could not have happened. Not to _this _house. Not to _these _people. _

_But the body that was sprawled on the ground just inside the doorway was not a hallucination. It was not a nightmare that his mind was assaulting him with; no matter how much he wished otherwise, the dead body of his best friend was reality. _

_Just like the sight of the woman he loved like a sister, the wife of his best friend, lying on the floor of the nursery, was real. _

_Both unmoving. Neither breathing. Both still and cold. _

Another rumble of thunder broke him from the grip of that particular memory. And he clutched to that imagined railing, securely readjusted his slipping grasp. With every memory, with every assault, it became harder and harder for him to keep that all-important hold on that rail. So hard … and he was so exhausted.

The tiredness stretched throughout his body, a simple movement of the head or lifting of an arm feeling like too much exertion. He had never been this tired, never been this drained or felt this weary. But it was an exhaustion that couldn't be solved by the simple solution of sleep. No, even if it _was _possible for him to gain hours of uninterrupted, pure and blissful slumber here, that wouldn't erase this feeling of complete exhaustion that wrapped him in arms of false security.

Gaining physical sleep wouldn't help him to gain strength to maintain that imperative grip on everything that mattered.

The memories continued to flicker in his mind, sometimes vividly, sometimes faintly. They whispered to him, reminded him … even seemed to scream to him at times. Those memories, their assaults helped along by the demonic creatures floating down the dark corridors, wouldn't let him forget. No matter how hard he tried to push them aside, tried to keep them away so as to keep his grasp on the rail, the memories – and the creatures – and even the prison itself – wouldn't let him forget.

But no matter how much his grip slips with each assault, he always came back; his hands always found that new, secure position for a time.

Until the next assault threatened to dislodge it once again, and the entire cycle, the entire battle, continued.

The sound of the storm raging outside the thick, stone walls was quickly joined by that of a few screams coming from others in the cold, dark, hellish prison. Those sudden shrieks and cries, those yells of the condemned, echoed up and down the corridors. They were louder than the thunder, more varied in their sounds than those of nature.

When the screaming started, it was at those times that he thought he preferred the memories, the mixture and rambling of his mind's thoughts. He desperately tried to block the shouts from his ears, even now; in the beginning – however long ago that was – his body had responded instinctively to the sudden sound. Like a child, his hands had fallen over his ears, feebly – and foolishly – wishing that such a simple action would cause all sounds of the outside world to disappear. Yet now, his body barely responded – at least, it barely made any physical movement. Just eyes sliding closed and the mind taking over.

He kept telling himself that he wasn't there – that everything that had happened in the past – Days? Weeks? Months? – was nothing but a nightmare. A vivid nightmare, yes, even a vicious nightmare, but it was still just a nightmare nonetheless. And he was bound to wake up from it soon. Nightmares always ended, no matter how horrible they were, after all. He would wake up.

But he never did.

"_You betrayed them." He could barely recognise his voice as he spoke; yet his mind registered the fact that it was himself who had spoken. The tone was low, quiet; he was muttering, but he was also speaking urgently. He felt like he'd run for hours; he was out of breath, but he _had _to say these words. Yet the words weren't coming – at least, not like he wanted them to come. He knew what he needed to say, but not how he needed to say it. _

_There were too many thoughts swirling in his head, each one viciously fighting the others to be the one in the forefront, the main thought. Emotions coursed through his blood, anger and hatred battling on one end, while sadness and guilt dwelled on another part; he felt disgust for the man in front of him, and he felt numb with everything that'd happened in just the past few hours. _

_He couldn't think, he couldn't focus on any one thing; too many different areas were vying for attention, for his focus. _

_And then the shout came, all seven words of condemnation. _

"_Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?"_

It was not the storm, now, that separated the man from the deluge of his memories, from the vivid replay of that morning. No, this time, it was the quiet – yet still echoing – sound of footsteps walking up the long stone corridor just outside the doorway of his cell. The sound, so normal and expected in the real world – the world outside of these walls – brought him back into reality far more easily than any of the storms' rumbles had done, any screams of the other prisoners had accomplished in doing.

The sounds of normal human footfalls were rarely heard in these corridors. Their presence was, as far as he was concerned for the time being, a point of interest.

That interest, his curiosity – for he had always been a curious boy – temporarily overpowered those all-encompassing feelings of exhaustion. His tiredness was swept aside for the time being, and he found the strength to move closer towards the iron bars that kept him locked in the small cell. He, like everyone else trapped within the prison's walls, rarely approached the doorway. He, like everyone else, never wanted to be closer to the cloaked demons than was possible.

And the back wall of the cells was as far as any of the prisoners could get from them. Few rarely left their places under the high windows to venture closer to the barred door.

But he was interested now, curious. The sound of humans walking past the numerous, dark cells was different; it broke up – at least temporarily – the monotony of the prison.

He watched through the bars, his eyes trying their best to pierce through the deep shadows of the corridor beyond, and he listened, straining his ears for the sounds of the footsteps as they came closer. He concentrated on those sounds, the sounds of people's feet hitting the ground … and the _clinking _and _clanging _of chains. And he knew, now, what this was, why there were people in the prison's corridors today.

New prisoners.

Still, though, his interest did not wane, and he remained next to the bars to watch the group as they came closer. For a reason he had never really understood, new prisoners were rarely brought in by the Dementors themselves; rather, Aurors, using a combination of magic and enchanted chains, escorted convicts to the cells – and only then, when the prisoners were in their new 'accommodations' would the demons get to take over.

So, he still watched. He watched as the group appeared at the far end of the corridor, heard one of the Aurors unlocking the doorway that led to this particular block. The sounds grew louder as the people walked further down, away from the doorway and towards his own cell. (He figured that they were heading towards the other end of the block; there were a few empty cells down there, not having housed an occupant since the past prisoner had died.)

The group would have to pass him to get there.

And he was curious to see just _who _had been condemned to spend their lives on this miserable rock.

But when the group of Aurors and prisoners finally came into his sight, however, he wanted nothing more than to be out of sight. He wanted to be away from the bars, where he was clearly viewable, and hidden back in the dark shadows, where his identity couldn't be determined. Just as he had found the strength to move closer to the doorway, he once again overcame the exhaustion to push himself into that far corner of his cell. That dark, hidden, safe corner.

He did not want the woman on the other side to see him. He did not want her focus drawn to him, did not want to hear her voice. He was not a fool; he knew that she was, more likely than not, fully aware that he was held in one of the cells she was walking past. And in normal circumstances, he would not have minded in the slightest getting into a fight with the dark-haired, pure-blooded witch on the other side of the bars.

Yet these circumstances were anything but 'normal'. He also hadn't seen her in years, and was in no hurry to bring about a family reunion – especially in the current setting, with the current company.

No, that reunion – if it ever happened – could wait. It could wait until the apocalypse, as far as he cared.

So he remained back in the dark corner, his form hidden in the shadows, and he made sure his grip was firm on that imagined railing. That all-important grasp that he would _not _allow to fail. Ever.

And he waited for the memories to come, knowing that the demons would be in the corridors soon – and with the demons came the assaults. The cycle would just continue; the monotony would return.

Yet he continued hoping all of the time that the nightmare would end.

That he could just wake up.

* * *

_Author's __Note__: And there you have it. The three italic scenes – the flashbacks – came from some of my other stories, or were inspired by the writing in the other stories. (The first came from _Brothers_, while the last one came from the previous part in _Shades of Black_, entitled, _He Laughed_.) _

_Also, since I haven't done this on any of the previous parts, I'd like to thank those of you who've reviewed or added this story to your favourites/alerts since the first part was posted. So, a thank you to _AliciaFB, RenieandtheMoo, _and _Zeena_ for reviewing; to _Isabella Cherone, PandaCookie, lady-blissxox, rock and roll alchemist, _and _xx Anime Roleplayer xx _for favouriting; and to _Echo in the Dark, Nuwanda-is-all, Rikki Aiken, ambush99, _and _jemovampiress _for adding this story to their alerts. _

_So, a big "Thank You" to you all; I really appreciate it. And to everyone else, thanks for reading, and don't hesitate to share your thoughts on this part, as well as the story as a whole. _

_--ForeverSirius77_


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